Sherlock and the Child
by Jambammer
Summary: Sherlock's problem has gotten bigger. Sequel to "Sherlock and the Baby."
1. Delivery

Over the past couple of years, Sherlock had heard many statements that just didn't immediately make sense in his mind, or that seemed to come out of nowhere and were so shocking or absurd that he didn't even want to justify them with a remark.

_"For the last time, you CAN'T keep fingers under the sink. If I find them here again, I swear..."_

_"I think Gladstone's eaten one of your experiments again..."_

_"Five nicotine patches? Don't you think that's a bit much?"_

_"She and I are getting a little place together, of our own. I'm moving out, Sherlock."_

_"We're getting married next spring!"_

That had been a year ago, and up until now, it had held the record for the most absurd thing he'd ever heard. Though, _this_ had definitely beaten it.

"Your daughter's here, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder from where he knelt over a body, his magnifying lens still hovering over the area he had been examining – a particularly interesting residue on the right sleeve, proof that the victim wasn't quite as clean cut as the police had originally stated – and gave the sergeant a confused glare. "What?"

"Your daughter," the man repeated, a stocky blonde no older than twenty five that obviously was new as he didn't seem to know _who_ Sherlock was. "She's waiting outside. Must be your weekend, yeah?" He grinned.

"I don't have a daughter," Sherlock replied plainly, looking back to fine white powder that lay on the surface of the green fabric.

He froze when he heard the man behind him break into a fit of laughter. Where was John when he needed him? Things were _so _much simpler when they lived in the same building.

"That's a good joke, sir, I..." The man had the sense to stop when he caught the icy grey eyes piercing into him. "That is... She looks just like... she's really not yours?"

"Not. Mine." Sherlock repeated slowly, hoping _maybe_ it would sink in. "I have no children. I am not in a relationship and have not been for a very long time, so don't even think about insinuating I just don't know about it. I'm married to my work, so if it were possible for a child to come through that, _then perhaps_ I might have one, but..."

"Thank God it's not possible," John commented, walking in the doorway, and Sherlock sighed inwardly. Finally, someone _worth_ talking to. "I'd hate to see that child."

"You're late," Sherlock declared, changing his glance from the man in uniform to the doctor who had just entered.

"Sorry, bit of a situation at the house," he answered flatly, causing his friend to raise an eyebrow. The way John's eyes had darted away from him and directly to the body meant he was lying, or withholding something. "Once I got here, it took me longer than it should have to convince them that I was allowed on scene."

"New team," Sherlock nodded disapprovingly. "Lestrade's not on this one." Lifting up the dead man's hand, Sherlock examined the nails carefully. There was slight discolouration – partial leukonychia, could be a sign of arsenic poisoning. "I haven't seen your _wife_ around the lab lately."

"No, uh, she hasn't been well," John answered quickly, too quickly, as he knelt down beside the body. "What're we looking at?"

"It appears to be a stabbing."

"But?"

The side of his mouth pulled up into a grin. Even after living apart for a while, John knew him well. "The wounds are too shallow to have caused any significant damage. Preliminary examinations suggest poisoning."

The sergeant cleared his throat, causing the other two men to turn and look at him.

"Look, I don't mean to interrupt... but what do I do about your... um... the girl?"

John furrowed his brow. "Girl?"

Sherlock sighed. "My daughter, _apparently._" He waved the other man off. "Give her back to whoever brought her, send her away. She's not my problem."

"That's the problem," the sergeant looked embarrassed. "The woman who dropped her off... well she said that she was your daughter, and how was I to know any differently? She looks like she's your daughter!"

The situation was forming in Sherlock's mind. "She left the girl."

The blonde young man nodded. "She didn't give her name either. I just—I thought..." Sherlock's piercing glare made the man feel foolish and frightened at once. "Well, she said it was your round."

Whatever colour was in Sherlock's face drained. "My round."

"Round two, actually. She didn't want to see you... I thought a recent split, or..." He trailed off as Sherlock swept by him, John hurrying after.

Sherlock stormed through the crowd of police as his eyes scanned around. He may not have known who he was looking for exactly, but he had an idea.

At last, he saw what he was looking for just outside of the police tape; About knee high, light grey eyes and dark brown hair pulled up into tiny pigtails, standing beside a police car and clutching a teddy bear for dear life. A tiny, bright suitcase composed of the primary colours stood nearby, and he swallowed when he read the name on the tag.

_Raven._


	2. She's not Mine!

"Sherlock?" John finally caught up with his former flatmate and followed the frozen stare to the little girl. "Sherlock, who's that?" When the detective didn't answer, John looked hard at the tiny face. "That's not... it can't be... Raven?"

"It is," Sherlock informed him flatly.

"How can you be sure?" John asked, looking back and forth between the two. "I mean, she has dark hair, but she was just a baby last time. There's no way we can be..."

"It's her, John," Sherlock cut in. "Look at her suitcase. It clearly says 'Raven' on the name tag. Not only that, but she has grey eyes, dark hair, and a tiny birthmark on the right side of her neck. It wasn't quite as noticeable when she was an infant, but now that she can hold her own head up, it is."

John squinted, but found he couldn't see the mark Sherlock referred to, not from where he was standing anyhow. This didn't surprise him. "But... if that's her, her name can't be Raven."

This remark puzzled the taller man. "Why not?"

"Because..." John swallowed. "Mycroft said her name was Cecelia."

Sherlock sniffed. "He had it changed. Easy enough to do, especially for him. Mycroft probably thought it was _cute. _Imagine, _Sherlock, naming a baby_," he spat, his words coated in mockery of his older brother. "Besides, he likely thinks it's better to start off round two with as little changed as possible."

"Sorry, round two?" John echoed as Sherlock strolled off. Perhaps he would be better to give up trying to follow the situation.

Slipping into his best deceptive expression, Sherlock donned a smile for the officer standing beside the little girl. "Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes. I was just informed that my ex-wife dropped off my _daughter_," even though Sherlock was a smooth liar, John caught how the last word stuck a bit in his friend's mouth. He had to turn away and cough to cover a chuckle. Sherlock looked down at the girl. "Hello Raven!"

"Daddy! Up!" She shrieked in recognition, raising her arms above her head. Sherlock _almost _lost his composure; Mycroft had trained the girl well, better than he had expected. He scooped her up, carrying her firmly with one arm.

"I'm sorry," he apologized to the officer. "My ex knows better than this, but I'm afraid there is no reasoning with her. I'm just going to take her home, get her settled with a babysitter, and then I'll be back. Shouldn't be more than an hour. Don't let them clean up the scene before then," he warned before turning and heading for the street. John took this as his signal to follow.

* * *

Even after they had climbed into the taxi, the girl had refused to let go of her grasp around Sherlock's neck. He'd had to pry her off, but every time he attempted to remove her from his lap, she screamed and began to throw a fit. Her lungs had gotten much stronger since the last time they'd met, he noticed. In the end, he had given in and let her stay on his lap.

"Are you sure she isn't yours?" John asked, only to be greeted by a nasty glare from the man across from him.

"Haven't we had this discussion before?" Sherlock asked and pondered the issue sarcastically. "Oh yes, I seem to recall it now. I do believe I informed you that she_ isn't mine._"

"Well it's Mycroft. He has surveillance over every area of your life. Could she be..." John trailed off, trying to dismiss the idea in his mind as rubbish and completely impossible, yet found he couldn't. "I don't know, a clone of you?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock brushed the theory off. "Mycroft naturally intends to clone himself first before he'd clone me. Actually, I'm quite certain that I'll be one of the last people he'll ever consider cloning."

John didn't like how Sherlock referred to cloning as being scientifically possible, but he decided it better to ignore it. "It's just... she really does look like you. I can see how the sergeant thought that she was your daughter."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, looking at the girl sitting quite quietly in his lap. "We do share similar physical characteristics. Obviously it's the reason why Mycroft chose _her._"

"Yes," John agreed, though he wasn't sure he saw the reasoning behind it; he still didn't understand any of this 'game' that the Holmes brothers were engaged in. He thought it completely unfair and just morally wrong to involve the little girl in their battles.

The doctor still couldn't believe he was looking at the baby he had looked after three years ago. Strange how quickly time passed. He hoped that it might slow down soon, just for a bit.

* * *

As they climbed out of the cab, Raven reattached her arms firmly around Sherlock's neck.

"Don' wan' down!" She cried, clinging to him for dear life.

"John, unlock the door please," Sherlock relented, extending his arm with the key. The last thing he needed was a scene caused by a screaming three year old girl. He had a crime scene to get back to, and this was slowing him down!

Taking the key, John chuckled. "You're going to have a lot less spare time this time," he observed, swinging open the door once he had turned the key. As Sherlock strode past, John looked down the hall. "Wait a minute, where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"She won a contest or something or rather to spend a month in Canada," Sherlock replied, clearly disinterested as he climbed the stairs. "I don't know the details."

"So you are completely on your own this time," John laughed, but his stomach dropped. Poor Raven; alone with Sherlock? John remembered how helpless he had been with a baby, how could he handle a demanding little girl? He sighed; at least now she could communicate what it was that she wanted. Slowly, another realisation dawned on him. "If Mrs. Hudson is away, who is this _baby sitter_?"

Sherlock only smiled at him.


	3. Om Nom Nom

This was ridiculous. There was no other way to describe it in his mind.

John had thought - rather, _hoped - _that when he had moved out of 221b, his life would have some sort of stability again and that his every moment wouldn't be dictated by Sherlock Holmes anymore. Part of him still found it thrilling, he supposed he always would - he'd _love_ to hear what his therapist would have to say about _that - _but he had other things to consider now, especially if his hunch turned out to be correct.

Yet, somehow, Sherlock had done it again. John found himself back in 221b, sitting at the desk across from a tiny, grey eyed girl who was colouring on a sheet of paper with what he hoped was an ordinary pencil. He didn't really trust anything lying around the flat. For all he knew, Sherlock had done some bizarre experiment involving an exotic poison on it.

The girl was still alive, and babbling a little story as she drew, so the blonde doctor hoped this was a good sign.

"'wo people wen' walking down the stree'," she mumbled, drawing a series of blobs that John presumed to be the people. He noticed that she rarely ever pronounced the 't' sound properly; his friend would be driven crazy by that later on.

"So, Raven," John tried to interject, but her strokes turned into bigger ones.

"Oh no! A mons'er appears!" She cried dramatically, a bigger blob with angled points now towering over the two tinier blobs.

"A monster?" John decided to go along with the story, an amused smile forming on his face. "What does the monster do?"

"I' ea's them!" She shrieked, not looking up from the page that now looked like a series of scribbles. "Om nom nom!"

Such a pleasant story. "It eats…"

"Oh no! Blood EVERYWHERE!" Her clumsy hands held the pencil tighter, scribbling thick graphite loops in random areas where she deemed there would be blood. John gulped. She was cute in a sort of twisted way. Did she really need to be staying with _Sherlock?_ What was Mycroft _thinking? _

Only one way to deal with it, that he could think of. "Does this monster have a name?" Raven shook her head. "Well, can I suggest one?" She nodded, keeping her eyes focused on her masterpiece. "What about Mycroft?"

"No!" She argued, scribbling in one particular spot that she deemed important. "Mis'er Mycrof' is nice. He's no mons'er."

That was debatable. "Oh. Oh I see."

Raven giggled. "Me an' him are playing a game." She looked up at John and pressed a finger to her lips. "A secre' game."

He leaned forward, and didn't even have to pretend to be interested. "What kind of a secret game?"

"A secre' one!" She giggled again, and looked around as if to check if there were anyone else around. Deeming the flat empty, she beckoned for the man to lean closer to her. Cupping her hand around her mouth, she whispered to John, "I have to call Mis'er Sherlock 'daddy' when there's people around. If I don', then I lose. I don' wan' to lose!"

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," John smiled. Sherlock was in for quite the time.

One thing was quite certain; neither of the Holmes' brothers were going to be allowed around any child of his until the child was at least thirty, if not older.

* * *

Sherlock watched the screen, tapping his fingers against the surface of the counter as he waited for the results to come back. Modern technology could be so _slow_ at times; it was irritating.

The door to the lab swung open. "Hello, Sherlock!" Molly greeted him, a porcelain mug in her hands. "I hope you don't mind, but I brought you some coffee. You have been up here a while, and I know what you like, so I thought, 'why not?'" She laughed lightly. He had been glad once she'd stopped pining for him, but he wasn't sure her trying to attain his approval was any better.

She had been the last person he'd expected to see. "Oh, thank you," he replied as she set it down beside him. "I didn't think you'd be here today. You've been away."

"Yes, a bit under the weather I'm afraid," she replied, but her voice sounded far different from anyone who'd been ill. Tired? Yes. Sick? No. His eyes looked over her carefully, examining the facts.

He didn't like the answer it gave him. "Boy or a girl?" He asked casually, though without interest.

Molly's smile dropped. "What? I'm not-"

"Really? I'd check on that if I were you." Sherlock answered plainly. "I'm sure you could find a doctor around here somewhere."

She smiled again, but it seemed rather forced; now, she looked sick. "Right. I… I'll keep that in mind."

They didn't say anything else to each other. Molly stood there a moment, looking out into space before she turned and quickly walked from the room. The detective welcomed the silence, returning back to the computer screen in front of him; he was sure it was arsenic that had been mixed with the cocaine he'd found on the body, he just needed the computer to confirm it.

The sudden ringing of his mobile startled him. Reluctantly, he answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, hi," John's voice answered dryly, with a slight alarm to it. "I just had a question about one of your… experiments."

"Which one?" Sherlock asked, focusing on the screen.

"The… God, I think it's a finger…"

"In the glass under the desk by the window?" Sherlock spouted back. "What about it?"

"Is there any harmful substances involved in this experiment? Say if a child were to chew on it…"

Sherlock practically flew out of the lab.


	4. Boring!

"Where is it?" Sherlock demanded, storming into the flat.

The blonde man gestured to the toddler lying on the sofa. "Raven? She's right over—" John started to say, but he was quickly interrupted.

"No, the experiment!" The detective demanded, looking around the flat anxiously. "Where is the experiment?" Before John could answer, Sherlock had found it back in the glass, but the glass had now been moved to the top of the desk. He fished it out and examined it carefully.

"So, is it poisonous?" John asked, crossing his arms. Judging by Sherlock's lack of concern, he didn't think it was as not even _Sherlock_ could be that heartless, but he wanted to be sure.

"No, it's a saline solution," Sherlock replied, turning the dismembered part around carefully. He dropped it back into the glass and cursed. "Bits of the skin are punctured. Weeks of work, ruined! I'll have to start it over."

"It could have been worse," John pointed out, and Sherlock glared at him.

"How, exactly?" He demanded, his eyes as piercing as his voice. "I thought _you_ were supposed to be watching her!"

"I turned my back for a minute, and the next thing I knew, she had… _that… _in her mouth! I'm sorry!" John replied defensively. "I'm not the one who keeps random body parts around my flat!"

"They're _experiments,"_ Sherlock reminded him with a bit of a hiss. "Honestly, how will you ever manage with a child of your own?"

As the words hit him, John dropped his arms. "A child… Sherlock, how…?"

"I ran into your wife this morning," he answered simply. "It wasn't hard to tell, but I did find it a bit odd that she hadn't noticed yet."

"She's been focused on work," John explained. "I've suspected for a few days, but I didn't want to bring it up with her until I was a bit more certain. You know how Molly is; she'll want to start painting the room before we know for sure." He paled. "Sherlock, did you…"

"Am I going t' die?" A tiny voice asked, breaking up their conversation.

"Eventually," Sherlock replied tonelessly.

"What? No! Sherlock!" John snapped at him, before turning back to Raven. "No, no. Don't worry. You'll be fine," he assured her in a softer voice. "Sherlock's back now, so you're going to stay with him." John grabbed his coat that he had left folded over the arm of the chair. "I need to get home."

"Bye bye!" Raven waved with her right hand, chewing on the left.

"No, you can't leave m—"

"I have to, Sherlock, thanks to you no less. I'm surprised Molly hasn't called me already," he said, slipping on his coat. He loved his wife, he really did, but he would hate to see her so excited if he was wrong. "Oh, Raven sometimes drops the 't' sound when she speaks. It could be nothing, or it could be a sign of a hearing problem. I don't think she has one, but could you keep an eye on it?"

"Why would I notice?I'm not a doctor." Sherlock questioned.

"If anyone would notice, it would be you," John replied. "Look after her, Sherlock, and maybe _try _to make the flat a bit more toddler friendly?"

The dark haired man scoffed in reply. The doctor hoped that meant 'yes, I will,' and waved goodbye to the little girl once more before making his way out the door.

Raven watched him walking down the stairs, before looking at Sherlock with a tiny frown. "You didn' say goodbye! Tha's no' nice!"

Sherlock cringed; John hadn't been joking. "_That's not_," he corrected her. "There's a lot in the world that's not nice."

"Like wha'?"

"_What_, and believe me, there is."

"Like?"

He sighed loudly. "Bad people who do bad things."

"Wha' things?"

"_Bad_ things." Before she could ask any more questions on the subject, Sherlock grabbed the television remote and pressed the power. A news programme was airing. "Watch that and be quiet."

Raven pulled herself up into an arm chair and looked at the screen. The people talking held her attention for a brief moment before her face crumpled into a displeased scowl. "Tha's boring!" She declared, looking back to the man who had settled into the chair by the desk.

"Wrong! It's educational," Sherlock corrected, feeling his patience slip away more and more by the moment.

"Nooo!" She responded stubbornly. "Boring!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth together and turned off the television. "Fine, then watch nothing, but be quiet! I need to think."

He folded his hands underneath his chin. The murdered man had been killed by cocaine mixed with arsenic; he was sure of it. Closer examination had revealed traces inside the man's nasal cavity. It could have been a slow poisoning, increasing the dosage each time until it became lethal. But why? Was someone trying to wipe out the drug world their own way, or had it been a hit?

And the stab wounds; the man had obviously been attacked. But why? By whom? He suspected a woman, or someone at least who'd never used a weapon before as the wounds were shallow, possibly suggesting uncertainty or lack of strength. Another drug addict trying to get a hit, or could it have been something more personal? He tapped his fingers together rhythmically. More investigation into the man's life would be needed. He'd—

"I hungry." Sherlock felt a tiny hand tugging on his sleeve. Looking down, he saw Raven looking back up him, his sleeve grasped in one hand and the other holding on to her sorry looking teddy bear.

"_I'm_ hungry," he corrected her impatiently.

"You too?" She asked back.

"No, that's the… never mind," he stood up from the chair. Right. Food. Maybe if he gave her something to eat she'd shut up for a while longer. But what? The fridge was empty, as were the cupboards. He frowned. That was strange; usually there was _something_ around.

Mrs. Hudson. She had always kept the kitchen somewhat stocked. Without her, no food. The thought of grocery shopping hadn't even crossed his mind in months.

The little girl was still looking at him with expectant grey eyes.

"How do you feel about Chinese food?" He asked at last.


	5. Lucky

A/N: I apologize for the delay! I'm in my last year of high school, and we're getting close to writing our government exams, known as diplomas where I'm from. They're worth 50% of our final grade. No pressure or anything.

In other news, I have a webcomic! The link's on my profile, so feel free to check it out and leave me a comment :D

* * *

He really should have had the food sent to the flat; Sherlock was angry with himself for making such a rash decision. He hadn't taken into account that the girl would try to hold his hand on the way into the restaurant, nor that she would talk loudly to him the entire way to their table. Instead, he had been thinking about thinking about the case, observing people to study their habits – such as the couple at the able next to them. Both wore rings, though it was obvious they weren't married to one another. The man was planning to end it, judging by his stiff demeanour. The woman, however, was pregnant and trying to find a way to tell him, obvious from the way she held her stomach and fidgeted uncomfortably.

That injected another thought into his mind; John was going to be a father. Well, good luck to him, but if he _ever tried_ to get Sherlock to watch the miserable—

"Why you no' eating?" Raven inquired, tilting her head to the side and looking at the man with a combination of curiosity and concern. Her dark brown hair had been pulled out of the neat pigtails and now curled messily around her face, reaching to her shoulders.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied simply, his hawk like eyes turning to study her. Mycroft really had done a remarkable job finding a child with a striking resemblance to himself. Her eyes had a similar shape, though they were slightly rounder, her nose curved upwards, though that was from her young age, and her face had a similar structure, though it was more rounded as well.

Mycroft may have been annoying and intrusive and downright lazy, but Sherlock had to give him credit; he wasn't lazy when it came to details.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not hungry." Truthfully, he supposed he was, but he had long since learned to suppress his body's complaints. "I don't eat when I'm working." Besides, he had eaten yesterday morning. He wasn't required to eat again for a little while.

"Why?" After shovelling a spoonful of rice into her mouth, Raven chewed loudly and announced, "i's no' good to no' eat." Sherlock bit down on his tongue to resist correcting her pronunciation and wished that she had a volume control. "You could ge' sick!"

There were people looking at them now. He didn't need to look around to know that. "I'm fine," he insisted. "I assure you, I'm an adult, I can look after myself."

Many would argue that including, it would seem, little Raven who had grabbed a piece of chicken off her plate and extended it across the table to him. To reach better, she had stood up on her chair and leaned against the table for support. "Eat!"

"Raven," he hissed warningly.

Her brow curved in intent stubbornness. "Eat!"

He sighed. He didn't need a scene, and arguing with her was proving to be an utterly pointless endeavour. Her eyes stared back at him as fiercely as he glared at him. Neither moved, neither intending to back down. Reluctantly, he snatched it from her hand and popped it into his mouth. "Happy?"

"Yes," she answered cheerily, sitting back down in her chair and stabbing another tiny piece with her fork.

Now, the case. The victim—

"Wha's your job?" Raven asked, her mouth still half full.

Sherlock wondered why she wasn't picking up on the fact that he was not in a sociable mood. "I'm a consulting detective," he told her automatically.

"Wha's that?" She asked quizzically.

"It's…" Dare he say it? "Like a police man." The words felt forced and bitter to say. He was not a police officer, and he would never be. He was far above their numbingly dull minds.

"Ohhh." Raven nodded, and suddenly pushed her plate towards him. Sherlock looked at it from the side of his eye; surely, she didn't expect him to _eat_ it, did she? "I's too big," she said instead. "Cut it small." When Sherlock didn't move, she smiled and folded her hands together. "Please?"

Maybe if she had something in her mouth, she'd use it to talk less, he reasoned.

If only.

* * *

"My fortune saids I'm lucky!" Raven announced for the third time, clutching the man's coat sleeve as she skipped alongside him.

"_Says,"_ Sherlock corrected with a scowl. "I would hardly be excited over it. The phrase was simply randomly generated and printed onto a slip of paper to be inserted into a folded baked pastry and given to superstitious simple minded people."

Raven blinked her grey eyes and stared at him blankly. "I's lucky!"

"Lucky to still be alive, I suppose," He muttered, unlocking the door to the flat. "It's more than can be said for some people." Such as the victim in his case. He'd been taken from life by foul play, and rather cleverly too. But why?

Sherlock's mind buzzed as he hung up his jacket, and the one that Raven had left on the floor before she had scampered up the stairs. He might have left it where it was, but it was at the bottom of the stairs, and either of them might have tripped on it when they came back down. He couldn't afford any unnecessary injuries, and he had no intentions of listening to Mycroft lecture him if something should happen to the girl.

As it was, he was surprised that he hadn't heard about the finger incident. He'd undoubtedly heard about it by now. As the postcard had said those few years ago, _prepare for round two._ This was round two, and he imagined that having a finger lying about didn't qualify him as prepared.

He'd have to move the others to higher shelves. The temperature variable would be changed, but he supposed it was better than having her bite into the one containing cyanide.

"Sherlock?" Raven's voice called down the stairs.

"What?" He asked, climbing them briskly.

She stood at the top by the door to the main flat, rubbing her eyes and suddenly looking considerably less happy than she had been. "I'm 'ired."

"So go to bed. It's just up there," he told her opening the door to the common area and pointing up the stairs with his other hand. He had papers to go over, case photos—

"I can't!" Raven insisted with a stamp of her foot. "You need to tuck me in!"


	6. To Be Smarter

A/N:Tests are done, new semester has started, college aproaches in the future!

Thanks to all who still follow this story. I appreciate it so much :D

* * *

This was degrading; Sherlock could come up with no better word to describe his current situation.

"Story!" Raven squealed, clutching the glass of water that she had _insisted_ she needed to sleep. He was beginning to find that if he gave in, she would stop asking for things, and silence would resume for a few minutes.

He drew the line at the story.

"You don't need a story to sleep," he replied adamantly, staring crossly at the girl sitting up beneath the covers. "You just need to close your eyes and _sleep."_

"I need a s'ory!" She protested, sticking out her lower lip in a pout. Seeing that her temporary guardian wouldn't give in, she sniffled. "I need a s'ory," she repeated, this time in a weepy voice as her tiny face collapsed into sorrow. Tears escaped from her eyes as she rubbed them with the back of her hands. "I need a s'ory!"

Sherlock rubbed his temple and sighed. "All right. Stay here."

He could have sworn he heard a cheery "okay!" as he walked into the hall.

In the common room, his eyes flickered over the titles of the books. He didn't have a fiction collection, let alone anything remotely child orientated. And why would he? Children were never in any plans that had ever crossed his mind. He liked challenges, things that made him think. The thought of a child made his mind feel numb.

And there was currently one sitting in the extra bedroom upstairs, waiting for him to return.

The thought of not returning to her did cross his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. She'd only get impatient and come looking for him, requiring him to coax her back up the stairs and into bed, wasting even more time.

Logically, giving her a quick story would free him of her for a few hours while she slept.

But what to read?

"Sherlock?"

His hand grabbed the first book it touched and he flew back up the stairs.

"Story?" She asked eagerly as he re-entered the room.

"Yes," he replied shortly, sitting down in a chair across from the bed.

Raven's mouth turned to a frown. "I wan' to see!" She said, straining forward to make her point. "Si' here!" She pointed to the empty space beside her in the large bed. It had been just fine for a grown man while John had lived there, but the little girl looked as though she were drowning in a sea of sheets and blankets.

"No." Sherlock hoped his tone made it clear that he wasn't about to debate the issue.

"Here!" Raven yelled, pointing insistently to the spot beside her.

He sighed. Just give in. Giving in meant less of a fight, less of his time used with _her._ Reluctantly, he pulled himself from the chair and sat rigidly beside her on the bed. As if unaware of his displeasure, Raven curled up against him and leaned against his arm. "Wha's it called?"

His eyes dropped to the title. "It's… a story about the brain," he replied simply. Grabbing a medical book perhaps wasn't his best action. He flipped open to a random page; it wasn't as if she actually cared about what he was reading anyways. Besides, it was never too early to educate a child, in his opinion. "The features that define a neuron are electrical excitability and the presence of synapses…"

"Where are the pic'ures?" Raven asked, clumsily turning the page.

He swatted her hand away and went back to the previous page. "There aren't any. Not in this part of the book." There were medical diagrams later on, but she wouldn't find them particularly interesting. He didn't want to risk her wrecking them with her fingers either; he'd never seen someone chew on one of their own limbs for so _long_.

"Go to a dif'rent part!"

"No. Presence of synapses, which are complex membrane junctions which are used to…"

"This is boring!" Raven declared, crossing her arms.

"This is _educational," _ he corrected.

"Wha's that?"

"It makes you smarter," he replied through grit teeth.

The girl actually seemed to ponder this. "I could be smar'er than you or Mis'er Mycroft?"

Not likely. "Smarter than Mycroft, perhaps, _if_ you listened."

She settled back against the pillow with an intrigued and contented look upon her face. "Keep reading."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue. She wanted to be smarter? Fine, he'd make her smarter. He would make her the smartest child in London, smart enough to outwit Mycroft at his foolish games. "In vertebrates, the majority of neurons belong to the central nervous system…"

"Wha's a ver…ve…ver…."

It may take a long time. At least she _wanted_ to learn, he supposed, even if it was just so that she could say she was smarter than others.

"We'll learn about that another night. Tonight, we'll just learn the parts of a neuron." Flipping to another page with a diagram, he pointed to part of the image. "That's a dendrite."

Raven giggled. "Looks like a thpider!" Her giggling turned the 's' sound into something barely recognizable.

"_Spider_," he corrected. "But it's not. This would be the axon. Covering it are Schwann Cells, and they make up the myelin sheath."

"They work 'ogether?"

"Yes."

"Like a team?"

"I suppose, yes."

Raven hugged his neck tightly. "I's smart! Thank you, Mister Sherlock," she beamed, pressing a kiss to his cheek before dropping down under the blankets and closing her eyes. "Goodnight!"

What had just happened? "Good night," he answered, getting up from the bed almost hesitantly. Children were such strange creatures. He scarcely believed that he was ever one of them.


	7. Domestic

A/N: I've started learning directing for the stage; it is _hell. on. wheels. _In sort of a good way. My original script was Sherlock and The Baby, but I wasn't able to condense it to a version I liked :(

* * *

"You've obviously made a mistake!"

Sherlock stormed around the tiny office, his deep voice thundering with rage. Many people would have been at the very least unsettled by the tall, livid force pacing around, but the Detective Inspector behind the desk barely blinked. He'd seen enough of Sherlock's fits to think himself adept at handling them.

"Sorry, Sherlock," he said with a bit of a shrug. "It was his ex-wife."

"No, no!" Sherlock argued with a wave of his hand. "No, that can't—"

"Sherlock, the woman confessed, and we found both the knife and the arsenic in her home."

"It was planted! It has to have been!"

"_Sherlock,"_ Lestrade made his voice as firm as he could while still keeping his cool. The last thing he needed was to anger the consulting detective so much that he'd boycott the department for a month. Sherlock Holmes may have been the very definition of an arrogant pain in the arse, but damned if he wasn't good at what he did. "I'm sorry. She turned herself in late last night. I tried to call you then."

Sherlock clenched his teeth and looked out the window into the department. On the other side of the door, sitting at a desk with an officer, Raven chattered away and scribbled on a piece of paper. His eyes narrowed. It was _her fault_ that he hadn't completed the case. That insufferable _thing_ was causing too much distraction. If only he had been able to think!

Putting his hands on his hips, he took a deep breath. "Fine. The case in the papers last week about the bodies with the missing feet, what—"

"I'm not putting you on another case."

The look he received when the detective turned around was venomous. "What?"

"My team is working diligently and making quite a bit of progress," Lestrade explained, clasping his hands together. "Frankly, we don't n… require your help at this time."

"You _can't_ expect me to believe that," Sherlock spat back. Lestrade's eyes momentarily flickered to the girl through the window. Sherlock's piercing eyes caught his gaze. Placing both hands on the desk, he leaned forward and glared into Lestrade's eyes. "You need me," he hissed.

"So does she," Lestrade responded calmly.

Neither moved, but kept their stares, daring the other to back down first. Finally, Sherlock snarled, whipped around and left the office, slamming the door behind him. The Detective Inspector watched as the dark haired man scooped up the toddler and carried her out under his arm. Though initially stunned, Raven grinned and waved at him through the glass as she was carried off.

Lestrade meekly waved back, and wondered if maybe taking away Sherlock's work wasn't the best idea.

* * *

John knew that look; scowl, narrowed eyes, and a bit of a determined fire burning in his expression. Sherlock was throwing a tantrum. The doctor could only watch his friend pace about, occasionally tearing his fingers through his thick curls.

"I'm taking her back to Mycroft," Sherlock finally declared.

John looked up from his place on the sofa where he cradled a sleeping Raven. "What?" He whispered, hoping Sherlock would get the message to keep his voice down.

"This is foolish! She is Mycroft's problem, not mine," Sherlock insisted at the same level he had been using. John gave him a hard look. "I have been distracted long enough," he whispered, grudgingly complying.

"You can't take her back, Sherlock," the blonde man replied calmly.

"Why not?"

"Mis'er Mycof' would win," Raven mumbled, stretching her arms out as she yawned. Turning over, she leaned into John and resumed looking as though she were asleep.

John looked down at her in surprise, and back up to Sherlock. The consulting detective looked genuinely perplexed for a brief moment. John shrugged. "Well… She's right."

"What am I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked helplessly. "I _need_ my work!"

John didn't need to be told that twice. When Sherlock didn't have anything to do, he became dangerous. The doctor was sure that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be pleased if she returned home to a fresh set of bullets in her upstairs walls. Would it even be limited to the upstairs?

"Why don't you do what Mycroft would least expect?" John asked after a moment. His friend raised an eyebrow and looked somewhat interested. "Why don't you live a… _normal…_ life for a while?"

He had never seen Sherlock look so horrified. "A _domestic_ life?" John nodded. "No, no, no! Absolutely not!"

"Mycroft knows you," John pressed. "He's probably sitting in his office, waiting for you to barge through his door and leave Raven on the desk. Would he expect you to settle down and look after her?" Sherlock was quiet, but the dark look on his face silently admitted that he knew the other man was right. "It lasted for what, two weeks last time? I'm sure you could manage for a bit."

Sherlock didn't answer, but raged internally. Domestic? _Him? _It sounded like a sick joke. He had never been a family sort of person, barely even having contact with his own. The last time he was around children, aside from Raven, was his school days, and he was still a boy himself. No, he needed mental stimulation, ongoing challenges to his intellect; this, _this_, was far below him.

John gently set Raven down on the cushions and rose to his feet. "Right, well I'll be off then. But do think it over, Sherlock. You want to beat that bastard, and we both know it."

He was almost out the door before Sherlock spoke. "John?" The doctor turned around to face his friend. Sherlock hesitated, and shifted agitatedly. "How?" He asked miserably before he had a chance to change his mind.


	8. Out For a Walk

John had left, and Sherlock had mixed feelings about that.

On one hand, he didn't have to listen to the lectures anymore. All he had wanted was quick, precise instructions on how to care for the girl running around the sitting room, but instead he had gotten a full seminar. _Make sure she has a regular schedule, watch out for excess sugars, if you put her down for a nap make sure she doesn't sleep too long otherwise it'll upset her sleep schedule, Sherlock… Sherlock, for God's sake are you listening to me?_

But, now John had left, and he was alone once again with the hyperactive terror.

"Raven, stop that," he commanded in a firm voice. Any man in his right mind would have stopped for that voice.

"No!" She giggled, and continued flying around the room.

Sherlock blinked. _No?_ And just what was so humorous about the situation? "Yes! Stop that right now!"

"NO!" She shrieked, grinning from ear to ear, pausing just long enough to be sure that he saw her defiance.

Sherlock quickly assessed his options. Drugging her wouldn't be difficult. All he had to do was give her a sweet smile and a glass of milk and a _special ingredient,_ and she'd be out like a light. Nothing that would hurt her, of course, just to give him some peace to digest his situation.

He dismissed this plan. John wouldn't be pleased if he found out – though if he had been there at that moment, he would _surely_ understand – and Mycroft certainly wouldn't.

Tying her down would lead to the same results, though he could pass that one off as a game. The problem with that plan would be in convincing John that it had merely been an innocent game.

He sniffed. Why was he so worried about what John would think? Besides, it's not as though his friend would have any right to judge when he'd be in the same situation in a couple of years. The thought brought a smile; he'd have to be certain to stop by for coffee with Molly and watch the little creature in action, driving John absolutely mad.

That was assuming he survived the creature driving _him_ mad.

Raven's dark curls flew behind her as she ran, a rampage of laughter and energy. She reminded him of Gladstone when he was a young pup. The dog had been an endless source of energy, and often kept them – well, John. He was John's dog – up at night if he wasn't dealt with earlier in the day.

Gladstone! That was it!

"Raven, why don't we go for a walk?" He suggested coolly.

* * *

A few people gave him odd stares, but he ignored them.

Raven walked alongside him, and seemed content, so that was all that mattered, really. She was _quiet. _He was feeling rather proud of himself. He had handled the situation in a logical way, John couldn't complain because he was making sure she got exercise and fresh air, and he had seen plenty of parents doing in the past, so it wasn't as if it was an unheard of idea.

He was just glad John had forgotten one of Gladstone's leashes when he had moved out. Sherlock had kept it for the sole reason that it might one day be useful, and sure enough it was. Clipping it to the belt of her coat didn't work as well as a collar would have, but it worked well enough. If she strayed too far, a tug of the wrist and she was back at his side.

"Where we going?" Raven asked curiously.

"We're just walking," Sherlock replied simply, his eyes scanning the people passing by. He had to give his mind some kind of activity to do, so he analysed anyone they passed by. Some of the scandals he could read from just a glance over would be enough to destroy some of their lives. How did 'normal' people miss the obvious?

"We has to be going some place!"

"_Have,_" he corrected her sharply, "and no we don't. We're just walking, enjoying the city."

"This is bo'ing," Raven crossed her arms in a sulk. She could say that again.

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, clutching the handle of the leash tightly. "Oh, I think it's rather refreshing. Fresh air is good for the mind." Actually, nicotine was good for the mind, but she was perhaps a bit too young to learn that yet.

"Air makes you 'hink?"She asked quizzically.

"Er… Yes. Yes it does." Encouraging her to think, and he was benefiting her health. Perhaps this whole 'domestic' thing wouldn't be too bad after all. He rather hoped Mycroft was watching how well the whole thing was going. He lifted his chin up and gave a smug grin at a security camera nearby.

* * *

"Just calling to make sure she's still alive." John had to admit it; he was worried. Sherlock was bored, no case, and left alone with a little girl. Surely that was a recipe for disaster, or an experimented on child.

"Thank you for your confidence, John," Sherlock replied sourly. "She's fine."

He wasn't ready to breathe a sigh of relief just yet. "How're things going?"

"Fine," Sherlock repeated, hanging up the leash. "This may come as a shock, but I _can_ function on my own."

"I know _you_ can, but you also have a child with you now. She does require a bit of attention," the doctor pointed out, rubbing his temples. Getting a straight answer out of Sherlock was next to impossible sometimes.

"I am aware of that," Sherlock replied. "For your information, we just got in a sort while ago from a nice walk together. I made sure she stayed with me the entire time. I didn't lose her, or make her crawl into any abandoned buildings."

"Good, and no, I still haven't forgiven you for that time," John's voice had traces of bitterness. "I almost wound up in court. _Again._"

"Yes, but you didn't, so I don't know what the problem is," the detective replied simply. "Next time just run when I tell you to."

"It was dark and—sorry, Molly's calling me from upstairs. I have to go, and you should be quiet so not to wake Raven."

"Wake?"

There was a bit of a pause. "She is in bed, isn't she? It's a quarter after eight. Don't you remember what I said?"

"Yes, of course she's in bed!" He snapped back. "She's just upstairs. You can hardly hear anything up there."

"Alright. Goodnight, Sherlock."

Hanging up the phone, Sherlock looked into the kitchen. Raven beamed at him, clutching a glass of milk and proudly sporting a milk moustache.


	9. Bedtime

Once more, the medical book lay open on his lap while he dutifully recited the words from the page, occasionally looking up to see if the girl had fallen asleep. Each time he stole a glance, he hoped with everything he had that she would be deeply asleep, perhaps even into REM.

His eyes wandered over to the pillow.

She still hadn't. To his surprise however, she _was_ remarkably quiet which, as he'd learned, was quite uncharacteristic for her. She was well trained on when to be quiet, such as when she pretended to be his daughter in public (though even then she was still inclined to voice her own thoughts), but when it was just them, there was nearly no way to get her to shut up. But this time, there was no interjecting with questions, no ridiculous demands… just silence and a faraway look in her pale eyes, as though she were deep in contemplation. He was half inclined to ask what she was so deeply immersed in, but decided against it.

"…which processes all the signals received from…"

A tiny hand touched his arm gently. "You look 'ired."

He blinked. John was the only one who ever told him he looked tired, but John was used to being ignored whenever he brought up the subject, however. Raven looked worried, an innocent kind of worry that she had displayed in the restaurant. To her, every human still functioned on the same schedule that she did - he vaguely remembered reading something of the sort somewhere - and to deviate was simply _mad_ in her eyes.

Was he tired? Well, perhaps a bit. There would be plenty of time to sleep _now_, now that she had cost him the only thing that kept his mind from stalling into insanity.

"I'm fine," he replied shortly, turning the page. Ah, a diagram. He could distract her with it. "This is the—"

"You should sleep," Raven interrupted with a matter of fact tone.

"I'm _fine,_" he insisted through clenched teeth. "Now, pay attention. This…"

"It's nigh'ime. People sleep when it's night 'ime. It's jus' how they work!" The little girl pressed stubbornly, crossing her arms.

"Not _all_ people," he tried to argue. "Now, I'm trying to read you your story so that _you_ will go to sleep."

"Don' need a story," Raven declared. "You need sleep!"

"Raven," he warned, but it was lost on her.

Her tiny brow furrowed, looking like a rather displeased _parent_ of all things. If he wasn't so frustrated, he might have been the slightest bit amused. Instead, he turned back to the book, preparing to read.

"SHERLOCK!" Raven grabbed the book from his hands and stood up on the bed. Standing, she was barely taller then he was sitting. Tossing the book over the edge of the bed, she focused her glare on him and placed her hands on her hips. "It's bed'ime! Go to BED!"

Initially stunned by the outburst, Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate, but quickly closed it. Right. _Fine. _If _that's_ how she wanted it, he wasn't going to argue. He was far above arguing with a three year old. Instead, he stood and walked out the door, shutting it with little less then a slam behind him.

Raven grinned and curled up in her bed, basking in the glow of satisfaction with herself.

Sherlock fumed the entire way down the stairs. It wasn't that she'd thrown the book – he didn't give a damn about it at the moment, though he would when it became useful to him once again – it was that she was giving him orders. He didn't take orders; he _gave_ orders, and people followed them. Everyone he encountered knew this.

Everyone, that is, except Raven.

By the time he had reached his room, changed, and laid down on his bed, he discovered that she had been somewhat right; his eyes did feel a bit weary. He supposed closing them for a moment while he processed his thoughts wouldn't hurt any. It might even prevent any other distractions from entering.

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

His eyes snapped open and his body automatically flung upwards so that he was sitting. His mind felt hazy and groggy – had he actually fallen asleep? Shielding his eyes from the light pouring into the dark room from the doorway, he made out the figure holding on to the doorknob.

"What?" He managed to ask, fumbling for complete control of his senses. As much as he was trying to fight it, his body begged for him to lie back down once again.

"I can't sleep," Raven whimpered, stepping into the room. From what he could tell from the little he could see and the sounds she made while walking, she was still quite tired, and held her teddy bear in one arm. The teddy bear meant security, comfort. Why would she be bringing it with her? "Bad dreams, mons'ers. Bad ones!"

Ah, a nightmare, that explained it. She was frightened. "What do you want me to do about it? It's not real."

"Can I sleep with you?" By now, she was quite close to him.

"That won't solve anything. Simply changing the location of where…" He stopped, distracted by the sound of a tiny hiccup. Oh lord, she was _crying._ He pursed his lips tightly before taking a deep breath. "All right, fine!" He relented, pulling the corner of the blanket up on the other side of the bed. "This is your half. You stay on _your_ half, am I clear?"

"Thank you, Sherlock!" She squealed, mood shifting instantly. She hugged his neck tightly, giving him a face full of her teddy bear that he decided must have been as old as she and never washed at all in that time period.

He waited as her footsteps echoed around the bed. With little grace, she fumbled up onto the mattress and wormed her way under the blanket. After flipping the blanket back over so the little girl was covered, Sherlock turned on his side so as to pretend she wasn't there. He figured he'd simply wait for her to fall into a deep sleep, then he'd carry her back to her bed. Naturally he'd never be able to sleep so long as she was in the room with him.

He didn't count on being the one to fall asleep first.

* * *

He awoke mid-morning to the realization that there was a rather odd pressure on his chest. It reminded him of a time when Gladstone had managed to get into his room at one of the odd times he had slept, and decided that Sherlock made the perfect bed.

Instead of a dog, however, when Sherlock opened his eyes, he was greeted to a mess of dark curls, and a tiny face contentedly sucking on her thumb.

That certainly hadn't been part of the arrangements they had agreed upon.


	10. Patterns

A/N: Not an overly light hearted chapter, but a needed one! Apologies for mistakes, it's 3:30AM. I'll probably redo the content a bit more in the morning.

* * *

"I can't take much more of this," Sherlock ruffled and tore at his curls, pacing back and forth across the tiled floor.

John leaned against the counter behind him, his arms crossed and a smile of mild amusement fighting for control of his mouth. He couldn't let it win though, not with the rage his friend was in. Still, it was somehow satisfying to see Sherlock being driven crazy by someone, and not the other way around.

Not that he would ever admit that aloud, and certainly _not_ to Sherlock.

"She has a complete disregard for anything I say or any form of personal space…"

"Hm," John chuckled softly, causing sharp grey eyes to turn to him. "I mean, imagine that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well you two _do_ seem quite alike, don't you?" John pointed out, trying to keep the triumph from his voice.

"We are _nothing_ alike," Sherlock shot back fiercely.

Raven looked up from the paper she was scribbling furiously on with a pen and frowned. "Yes! Same hair!" She motioned to her own curly hair, currently pulled up into a ponytail at the top of her head, courtesy of John's enthusiastic wife. Seated at the island in the kitchen, she was in the middle of the commotion, and she seemed to be well aware of it.

Sherlock bit down on his lip as the doctor smirked. "Well, you really can't deny that one. You know, I really do wonder if she's…"

"John, don't," Sherlock warned, holding up his hand. "Don't say it."

"You have to admit, the similarities…"

"Don't. Say. It."

John shifted, using his better arm to brace himself against the surface behind him. "Do you know for sure? And by sure, I don't mean your guesses – you do guess," he cut Sherlock off when the man opened his mouth. "I mean a scientific, compared DNA, no way to argue with it, paternity test." He wasn't surprised when the dark haired man before him didn't respond. "That's what I thought." John tilted his head slightly. "Sherlock, with all the resources available to you at Bart's, why didn't you run it?"

"I haven't had the time," Sherlock replied simply as Molly walked back into the room.

She laughed and shook her head. "I think it's actually pretty obvious why," she stated, handing Raven a box of crayons that she'd fetched. Molly cleared her throat embarrassedly and gave Sherlock an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. I suppose it is a bit of a sensitive matter."

Sherlock stiffened. She had better not have been implying what he thought she was.

John looked from Sherlock to his wife as she pulled a plastic cup down from the cupboards. "I'm not sure I follow?"

From the intense burning look Sherlock was giving her, she knew that he followed, but she paid no heed. Instead, she filled the cup with grape juice. "I think the reason you haven't checked," she started, taking the cup over to Raven and setting it in front of the little girl, "is because you don't want to know the answer." Molly ran her hand gently over Raven's head affectionately, but her gaze was focused on Sherlock.

John licked his lips and nodded, as if it made sense to him. "Ignorance is bliss."

Sherlock glared. All eyes were turned to him, even Raven who peered at him over the edge of the cup she sipped from. "Ignorance is—"

"Something you've been known to be if it suits you," the blonde cut him off. "And it would certainly suit you this time."

"I'm right, aren't I?" Molly pressed, and Sherlock looked away. This was absurd. He liked her much better when she couldn't say a full sentence around him without giggling nervously.

"You are n—"

"PUPPY!" Raven squealed as Gladstone dashed into the room, the cup in her hands forgotten in a rush of excitement. It clattered to the ground, the contents spilling and splattering freely. "Oops," she clapped her hands over her mouth, noticing the mess, particularly the fresh décor up Molly's leg. "I sorry," she whispered, tears rushing to her eyes.

"Oh, don't worry sweety, it's fine," Molly assured her with a smile as John fetched the paper towels. "I'll get it cleaned up, okay? Don't cry. Why don't you go play with Gladstone?"

Raven nodded, sniffling once more as she climbed down from the chair, with some assistance from John. The moment her feet touched the ground, she walked slowly in Gladstone's direction.

She had Sherlock's attention when she looked over her shoulder and grinned at someone else cleaning up the mess. He blinked and watched her curiously. Had she just cried to avoid any punishment? He wasn't sure which surprised him more; the fact that she had tried it, or the fact that it worked.

Or the fact that he was _perhaps_ proud.

Before he could process that thought however, his eyes locked on to the pattern on Molly's pant leg as she wiped up the juice. It was typical of a spilled drink having fallen from such a height, but kneeling on the ground altered it slightly. Her sleeves skimmed the puddle, pulling up traces of it into the fabric. Not much, but enough that it was visible if one were looking for it, or had an eye for such details.

His heart raced as the realization hit him; He'd seen it before.

_He had seen it before._

_"Oh,"_ he breathed, his mind sparking with theories and facts. One fit all known facts almost perfectly. That was it. It had to be.

"Sherlock?" John broke into his thoughts.

"I have to go," the consulting detective announced suddenly. He was right, he had to be. Oh, how could he have missed this?

The doctor knew that look too well. "Oh. Right. Do you want me to come?"

"No, I have to see Lestrade," he replied, missing the flash of disappointment that went across his friend's face. His mind was churning too fast. Of course, it explained why the ex wife confessed...

"Do you want us to keep Raven?" Molly asked, looking between the two men.

"Yes- No, no, actually," he corrected himself, rushing to where the girl in question was giggling.

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her wordlessly away from the affectionate bulldog to the door and hurriedly slipped her shoes on. There was little time to waste. He slipped her coat on and zipped it with little patience, but John noted that it wasn't nearly as rough as he'd seen Sherlock be with others.

"What's going on?" John asked as Sherlock pulled his own coat on.

The dark haired man grinned smugly. "The usual; I'm right, Lestrade's wrong and now I need to go tell him _why,_" Sherlock said quickly. "I'll text you the details later. Come along, Raven," he said, tying his scarf as he swept out the door. She followed after him obediently, running to keep up with his long strides.

"Why is he taking her?" Molly asked aloud, watching from the doorway as the two got into a taxi and drove off. "We could have watched her. I wouldn't have minded anyways."

"He needs her for something," John mused, his arm around Molly's waist as he gently pulled her back into the house, "and lord knows what because it's certainly not that damned test."


	11. Daddy is Always Right

A/N: So I was going to wait before posting this, but then I got impatient. Longer chapter, enjoy and comment/review!

* * *

Lestrade shook his head at the sight of the two walking casually towards him. It wasn't just that they were walking towards him, but how leisurely they were doing so. Did the man have no respect? No, wait, Lestrade knew the answer to that, and he crossed his arms and waited for them to approach.

"Sherlock, this is a crime scene, you can't be here," the detective inspector reminded him, knowing full well that it was a losing fight. Telling Sherlock he couldn't be there was about as effective as telling a cloud it couldn't be in the sky.

"Why, hello Detective Inspector, fancy meeting you here," Sherlock replied brightly, but the arrogance in his voice was unmistakable. He knew something. "I was just out for a stroll with Raven here," he raised the hand that he was holding while Raven waved with the other. "Thought it was a nice day for one."

"It's a crime scene," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock frowned disapprovingly. "You're beginning to sound like Anderson."

"This is a _murder_ scene," he continued. "She…"

"Yes, and frankly quite a dull one from the looks of it." Sherlock's eyes flicked over the body not far off. "A mugging gone wrong, I'd say. If I were you, I'd check the alleyways nearby. You're looking for a man slightly below average height, and he's probably managed to change by now, but he'll likely have blood spatters on his shoes. Odd that people tend to forget about their shoes," he mused to himself. "Remember that, Raven; never forget the shoes."

"What do you want?" Lestrade relented.

"The murdered man, James Sullivan…"

"Sherlock, that case is closed."

"I need to talk to the ex-wife," Sherlock continued as though the other man hadn't spoken at all.

"Why?"

"Because she didn't do it."

Lestrade sighed. "Look, I'm trying to be patient, Sherlock, but I'm busy, and that case is closed. You know why it's closed? Because she confessed. She confessed to everything, and knew all the details about the crime, details we hadn't released." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but she's the murderer."

"She didn't do it," Sherlock repeated, "but I believe I know why she confessed and how she knew the details. Five minutes, Lestrade, I want five minutes with her."

"Sherlock…"

"Five minutes." He was close to getting his way; he could see it in the other man's face. "Please," he threw in for good measure.

* * *

"Her name is Jody," Lestrade informed him, holding the handle of the door. "Five minutes, Sherlock. That's all."

"That's all I need," Sherlock assured him.

The elder of the two nodded and opened the door. "Uh, no, Sherlock, Raven—"

"Is staying with me," Sherlock finished for him, pulling Raven into the room with him and shutting the door behind him.

A woman sat across the table, her head bowed. Her hair was a sandy colour, and her face was tired – she wasn't old, late twenties perhaps, but she looked worn. Sherlock pulled out the chair across from her and sat down before lifting Raven into his lap. He'd warned her to be quiet, and so far she was obeying.

"Jody Sullivan," he addressed her.

"It's Jody Moore," she corrected softly, keeping her head down. "I use my maiden name."

Using her maiden name, indicating that she wanted no connection to her former husband. "Ms. Moore…"

"I've told you everything already."

Ah, defensive. He noted this as well. "I've never spoken with you before."

"I mean the police."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm not with the police," he replied, and she looked up for the first time. Her eyes looked at his face quickly, but they settled down to rest on Raven. _Interesting._ "And I don't believe you have told them everything."

"Why do you say that?" She asked quietly, her voice losing the mild confidence it had held. Her eyes remained on Raven, who was sucking her thumb and seemingly oblivious to the conversation happening.

"They have your child, don't they?" He had to get to the point.

"Who—"

"The men who murdered your ex. They took your child."

She shook her head and dropped it once more. "I don't have…"

"Oh, but you do," he interrupted, looking her over quickly. "A child of perhaps two, but no older. You use to be quite thin, but you've retained much of the weight from the pregnancy, despite all the stress you've been under the past year, and you have been under stress. Perhaps that's why you've kept the weight." Pointing to her arm, he continued, "You've been scratched, and bitten, but not by an animal, and the marks are too small to be from an adult. A child throwing a tantrum however would cause that."

She drew her lower lip into her mouth and trembled a bit, but said nothing.

"Your husband had stains on his clothing from a spilled drink. The patterns indicated that he hadn't been the one to drop it. He was far too tall, and he was standing while he received them. Someone at a table perhaps. Now, if an adult had dropped it, they would be the one to clean it up, but they didn't. James did. Also from the patterns, I could tell that he turned around several times while cleaning a spill. He turned to see someone. A spill of the size it was wouldn't take long, so he would just ignore an adult talking to him until he had finished. Who needs to be watched at all times? A child," Sherlock finished, noting that her eyes were once more upon the girl in his lap. "Something you're accustomed to."

"Please," the woman whispered, choking back her tears.

"Your ex-husband had your child the day he was murdered. However, no child has since been found."

"I d-didn't want to g-give him S-Sammy, with the d-drugs and all he'd been in-into," she hiccupped, wiping her spilling tears away with the palm of her hand. "But… but the courts… there-there was no proof."

Sherlock folded his arms around Raven to press his hands together. "They told you to confess, planted the evidence in your home on the condition your son wouldn't be harmed."

She nodded, holding her arms close to her body. "They-they said that i-if I told the police, they w-would kill h-him. B-but now..."

"I'm not with the police," Sherlock reminded her, lifting Raven as he stood.

"P-please," Jody sobbed, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "F-find my son. Please, Mr. Holmes."

He nodded, and stepped out the door, shutting it softly behind him.

On the other side, he smiled at the waiting detective inspector. "Did you get all of that?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yes. Alright, you were right."

"Obviously."

"Duh! Daddy is ALWAYS right!"

Lestrade blinked and looked at the girl quizzically. "_Daddy_?"

"Long story, she calls me that in public, but nevertheless, she's correct. You should _know_ to listen to me by now," Sherlock chided. "Now, don't you think you have work to do? This case is most certainly _not_ closed, and a child's life is in danger, if it's not already too late due to your incompetence."

"I thought you don't care about the victims or hostages?" Lestrade called after Sherlock as he strutted away.

Sherlock turned. "I don't, which will help this case considerably. I might as well just finish it for you. Who does care is the woman sitting in that room. I imagine the papers would love to hear her story of how the police failed her if her son turns up dead, don't you?" Raven yawned widely and nestled against Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh, that's right, I'm not to be working these cases. Goodbye Detective Inspector, I believe it's nap time."

Sherlock grinned to himself as he walked out of the building, Lestrade barking orders to the rest of the team behind him. Double checking to be sure his mobile was on, he slid it back into his pocket. He estimated that he'd be getting a call _pleading_ for his help in approximately an hour to an hour and a half. Plenty of time to put Raven down for a while. Meanwhile, he could do some research of his own.


	12. Not Good to be Alone

A/N: I apologize; I had meant to make the ending lighter. Oh well, the ending of the next one is lighter. Already wrote it! Yes, this is officially a trilogy! I'll try to have the next one up in a few days, keep your eyes out for it.

* * *

Sherlock worked vigorously while Raven slept peacefully in the room upstairs. The little girl had been exhausted. She hadn't even wanted him to read to her. As soon as she'd climbed up onto the bed and he'd draped the blanket over her, she'd curled up and been fast asleep in minutes.

He'd gotten straight to work, looking at crime scene photos, making phone calls and doing internet searches, often simultaneously. There were links that he could make sense of now, and he could follow them.

_This_ was what he lived for. The thrill of being right, the energy of his mind working. It hadn't been gone long, but _oh,_ how he had missed it. Every fibre of Sherlock's being was rejoicing, thriving on the sensation of putting a puzzle together again.

When he'd finally pieced it together, he hadn't paused to consider it - he just dashed out the door and flagged down a cab.

It was only after they'd left Baker Street that he remembered the girl sleeping quietly in the upstairs bedroom.

He debated his options quickly. He could have the cab turn around and go back for her, and then drag an uncooperative, miserable sleepy child with him on a delicate and likely dangerous operation, wasting valuable time in the process.

Or he could let her sleep, and return as quickly as possible.

It wouldn't be long, he reasoned. He would be back at the flat within an hour. He'd probably be back before she even woke up.

* * *

John's phone beeped, and though he complained aloud, he prayed it would be from Sherlock. Not that he didn't enjoy spending time with his wife, curled up together on the couch just watching telly, but he'd seen this episode of _Glee_ at least twice before and to be honest, it never really was his kind of show to begin with.

He did miss the excitement of 221b, sometimes quite terribly.

Luckily, he had a wife that understood, even if she never said anything about it.

"Sherlock?" She asked sleepily.

"No," John frowned at the screen. "Mycroft. He wants me to meet him at 221b."

"You'd better go then," Molly said, giving him a sympathetic look. "We don't need a team of agents coming after you. I've finally got the house looking nice again."

John laughed and kissed the top of her head. "Can't be any worse than Sherlock and Raven."

"it's nice, isn't it?" She asked, stretching her arms as her husband got up.

"What is?"

"Sherlock and Raven. No one should be alone, even him. Having someone else around is good. She's a sweet little girl, andI don't think he hates her as much as he pretends," she stated.

"I don't think he really hates anyone as much as he pretends. Except maybe Mycroft. Or Anderson. He never did like Anderson."

"Or Jim," Molly added, darting her eyes away. She still felt foolish for how easily he'd used her to get to Sherlock. She had believed that bastard. She'd even loved him, or had started to at least.

"No," John disagreed. "They understood one another, and though Moriarty was what I'd call the definition of evil, Sherlock loved the games that he set up." John caught her look. "He used everyone, just like Sherlock and Mycroft. They use people to get what they want. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," she blinked back her tears. How many times had she been used by _Sherlock?_ At least she'd been aware she was being used then. It was just a conscious choice to let him use her. Anything to get that smile. Now, John's was much more appealing, and he actually loved her back. "It's just hormones. Now get going."

* * *

John arrived to a very quiet 221b. It was a bit unsettling.

Mycroft was waiting for him, sitting in an armchair and swinging his umbrella absently back and forth. "Hello, John, how nice to see you."

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, feeling uneasy as he looked around the flat. A few of Raven's drawings lay discarded on the floor, but everything seemed to be in order, as much order as Sherlock had anyhow.

"Out rescuing a small boy. He'd be just turning him over to the police now," the elder Holmes commented, looking at his watch.

"And Raven?"

"In the car you saw outside."

"Why?"

"I need you to give my brother a message."

* * *

Sherlock raced up the stairs, high off the adrenaline from solving the case entirely. He had almost bounded past the sitting room when he caught sight of John. Odd, John wasn't ever there unless Sherlock had instructed him to be there.

From the look on John's face, Sherlock knew. There was no reason to go upstairs.

"When?" He demanded.

"About half an hour ago, I think," John answered truthfully. "That's when I got here anyways." He noticed Sherlock's hands tense, tightening into a fist and releasing several times; he was upset, though he was fighting very hard to keep from showing it.

"Good. I can return to my work then."

"He wanted me to tell you that you lost this round." John informed him. "What does that mean?"

Sherlock looked at him as though the answer were clear. "It means I lost, obviously."

"Doesn't it bother you that you're playing a game with this girl's life?" He asked, but received no response. Instead, his friend and former flatmate took to looking out the window, his hands folded behind his back. "Is that the last you've seen of her then?"

"Of course not," Sherlock answered simply. "We're tied. I won the first round, remember? No, it'll be the best two out of three." His hands were still tense, though John pretended not to notice. "Once I win the next round, _then_ this game will be over."

John crossed his arms. "What happens when you win?"

"I don't know."

"Right." The two were silent, and John wondered if he was the only one to notice. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and Sherlock nodded. It was the tiniest of moments, but it was there. John cleared his throat. "I should get back home. When you get another case, bloody ring me, will you? You hate doing them alone."

"And you hate not being involved." The smile was evident in Sherlock's voice, even if it wasn't present on his face. "I suppose I could see if you're not busy."

"Good. No one needs to be alone. You're always welcome around our place, for dinner or whatnot," John added before making his way out of the flat. He knew Sherlock would probably never take the offer, but it was still only right to have the offer known.

Sherlock wondered if he actually agreed about being alone. He had never felt more alone. Funny; he'd been alone many times beforehand and had never noticed how odd and uncomfortable silence could be.

Taking Raven's drawings from off the floor, he looked at a crudely drawn figure which could only have been of him, going by the hair and what he assumed to be a scarf. He smiled as he placed them into a nearby box. A child was not what he needed running around the flat, it was about time Mycroft took her off his hands anyways.

Still, he was very much looking forward to the next round. He wouldn't make a stupid mistake this time. He'd beat Mycroft.

Maybe he'd get a dog in the meantime.


End file.
